hi all who venture this far! i am a college student, so do not expect regular updates.
i only plan on writing for COD and ghost/simon as of now, but perhaps i will dabble into others in time.
i love fluff as much as a next person, but dark fics will probably be most of what i post, so general tws for suicide, depression, anxiety, self-harm (not graphic), rape, etc etc.
my asks are always open, but it may take me some time to respond :) requests are also open, however it may take me even more time to respond to those
i keep thinking about the producer asking fledgling pornstar reader if she's ever done anything like this before and them replying 'no'- my brain keeps envisioning ghost going back to rewatch it for the first time, realizing the title is something like "losing my virginity on camera" or "ghost pops my cherry!", and almost blacking out with how fast the blood all rushes to his dick
n e ways- delicious soup, thank you so much for your writing! xoxo early
I saw that tag, Ghoul!!!! Virgin breaker Ghost??? Be still my beating heart đŠđŠ
it thrills him to the bone when you look away as he spreads your legs, thighs trembling but resolved, cunt already glistening. this is ghost's favorite part, when he spreads your cunt with his fingers, letting the camera compare their width to the tight hole already starting to clench. he flicks his tongue against your clit to hear you whine, to make your hips jump --attempt to jump-- away from his hold.
"casting couch" videos aren't meant to take their time but just the taste of you on his tongue leaves him wanting more, makes him wish this were themed differently; "virgin forced to ride ghost's face for hours" springs to mind as a title and he quickly dismisses it. he spends too long on the teaser, spends too much time watching the way your cunt clings to his fingers, feeling the soft warmth of your insides. the producer has to prompt him to fuck you. it's an amateur mistake.
and ghost is far from amateur.
you take his cock so well it almost kills him. letting him sink to the base without a fuss, a natural at playing to the perverts that'll be watching this later when you press your hand to your stomach to try and feel for him. it makes him want to be mean, makes him want to keep you from working for a while. it isn't his style, goes against the reputation that's kept him with a steady flow of work for years.
but he doesn't care. he grabs the back of your thighs and pushes your knees to your chest, fucks his cock into you like he never lets himself with anyone else, and you wail. nails scratching channels up his back, head tipped back with tears on your lashes, those perfect lips part for him with perfect panting sobs that just make him fuck you harder.
make him dig his teeth into your neck, as if that might let him keep you.
you choke and he feels wetness slick the hair on his stomach. you take him so fucking well, come on his cock like no one else does.
when he holds you open for the camera to see his come dripping out of you he can hear the producer laugh, "bet you'll be feeling that for a while, eh sweetheart?"
it makes ghost want to snap, to growl and bare his teeth, but you're just a paycheck and he's just an actor, and this didn't mean anything to anyone. especially not him.
Simon and Blue from @rorylovesangst story Burning Hill𼺠Being delulu and imagining them all cozy and happy and safe for once, having fallen asleep while watching a movie.
I absolutely love this story so much and its been a huge source of comfortđ I just want to say a big thank you to Rory for writing this masterpiece đââď¸
This was long overdue but the end of last year was a mess and finally got myself enough free time to draw this đ
you wouldnât think simon riley has a breeding kink, he hates himself, he doesnât think he can do anything right.
but when youâre on his cock, your tight cunt snug around him as he hardens, when youâre panting into his hair and telling him you could go for round three, thatâs when it hits him, he could have a family with you.Â
you rock against him, a desperate plea of âi want to give you babies.â out of your mouth, and he just holds you tighter. he always thought his children would be tainted by his blood.
âwâwanna fill you up-â he moans, âp-please?â he asks, sweaty and flushed, you nod and you feel his spend in you, hitting you in the womb, filling you up to the brim.Â
âhope it takes.â he places a hand on your stomach, the little bulge where he cock sits. you kiss his neck, âi hope too.âÂ
Just thinking about Raspberry Girl bent over her butcherâs block countertops with her pants down around her ankles as Captain Riley fucks her ass with the handle of her favorite spatula
"Can shave my own face, love." Simon huffed, looking down at you as you pressed the warm wet towel against his jaw and neck. Watching as you then pick up some shaving cream. Rubbing it onto his jaw and upper neck.
"You have a military ball coming up and I'm not letting you go with a cut on your face, ingrown hair, or razor burn. You have the most sensitive skin I swear to God." You mutter, pulling out your straight edge razor.
You pull the skin on Simons jaw taut, carefully gliding the razor against his skin. Humming to yourself.
"You're good at this." Simon says when you held the razor under the tap for a moment. He had been surprised when you didn't nick the spot on his jaw that he always did.
"Please, I've been shaving my legs with a straight edge since I was sixteen. Your jaw is nothing compared to my knees." You quip. Once again bringing the blade to Simons face.
After a few minutes of domestic silence, you grin a little. Moving the sharp blade over Simons cheek. "You know if you don't say anything right now it means you hate me."
Simon raised an eyebrow at you, staying silent as to not be cut by the sharp blade. And once you clean off the blade under the water, Simon pinches your side. "You're being mean, love."
"Am not, was just stating a fact."
"You know I love you." Simon says, before shutting his mouth as you go back to shaving.
"You're just saying that 'cause I've got a knife against your throat."
The corner of Simons lips twitched. Amusement flickering in his eyes.
Once you'd finished up shaving, you carefully rinse the areas you shaved with cold water, pat it dry, then applied some aftershave.
"'s all this necessary?" Simon asked, feeling how smooth his jaw was on instinct.
"You want me to get my tweezers out when I see the ingrowns caused by your shitty routine again?" You ask, raising a brow.
"No ma'am," Simon murmured, kissing the top of your head as you hopped off the bathroom counter.
â§Â°. âđšâ°đşâ.°â§
Buy my cat a Christmas Present? âď¸ đ ° (â˘Ë â˘ă.á
Off topic of cod but stranger things is such a good little binge watching show because thereâs seriously never a dull moment (aside from that like season long adventure of el finding her mom and sister or whatever) (personally didnât enjoy that plot line but who am I to judge). Also someone save jonathan from his lobotomy he used to be so edgy and entertaining
socks on, socks off, nothing worked over the block of ice which happened to have toes and fingers.
nothing except, âbloody hell, lovie.â Simon grunted, a palm wrapped around your ankle moving further to baren cold lands of your feet.
He frowned, you grinned up at him, pulling back your leg from where you were laying down on the sofa.
Simon sat down and pulled your leg back in his lap. Warm hands rubbing up and down.
âwhat i'm gonna do without you?â you sighed, pouting and wiggled your toes in his hot grasp.
âwhy would ya' do without me?â he asked accusingly instead.
Great point. âSleep without a bear snoring down my neck.â
âComplaining, eh.â he tickled and you gasped for breath before threatening to actually do without him and peace was restored back to him caressing while you read.
You turned another page of the trashy romantic novel, looking up the cracked spine to see Simon focused entirely on warming the tips of your toe with his thumb.
âI make my poor boyfriend rub my feet,â you joked, nudging his crotch with your heel which he caughtâtilting his head to one side clocking your mischief.
âI want to spent my whole life keeping you warm.â
Personally I love when characters are graceless and socially awkward. Like yes bae itâs totally fine that you keep stuttering over your words and canât look someone in the eyes or even just staring at people when you donât know, or want, to respond. All big eyed and blinky. So when Simon meets an awkward little thing that seriously makes him walk on EGGSHELLS to get comfy around, you better bet on him doing anything he can to gain their trust
Simonâs voice cracks the silence like a whip. You donât answer. Youâre pulled against his chest before you even realize itâface smushed in the scratchy fabric of his Carhartt, tears staining through the canvas. It smells like himâmuddy, smoky. A wave of his aftershave prickles your nose. Heâs saying something again, but itâs muffled by the water in your ears. Soon youâre hiccupping for air as the water fills your lungs, and youâre reminded this isnât your first time drowning.
When you were a wee little thing, the creek behind your shack was the only thing that didnât hurt to touch. It wound through the dirt like a vein, weak and murky, carrying with it the smell of rain and rot. Youâd sit on its edge, dipping your toes in, pretending the water could wash you cleanâwash away the things your fatherâs voice left behind. The air was always thick with gunpowder and tobacco inside, but down there, under the trees and beneath the moss, it almost felt like peace.
One summer day, the water bit back. A snapping turtle clamped down on the arch of your foot as you waded between rocks. Sharp as a trap, teeth masticating into the soft place between skin and bone. You remember the shriek that tore out of youâshrill, grotesqueâand how the sound agitated even the birds from the trees. Before you could stop yourself, you were gulping down piquant creek water in hopes of finding air. Your father didnât run to you. He came slow, cursing, his Remmington 700 still in hand. By the time he jerked you out, you were garbling up salty creek water, the grass imbruing into a vicious vermillion around your foot. He ripped the turtle off, tossed it into the mud, slapped his hand on your back, and trekked back to the woods with a vexed huff.
After that, you never touched the creekâs soupy water again, just slumped on rocks nearby. But sometimesâwhen your chest pinches taut, when your pulse batters so loud you canât hearâyou feel it pooling inside of your lungs no matter how far youâve gotten from that creek. The brine, the burn, the weight of something trying to drag you under. And you remember that no matter how far you run from that placeâthat home, that feelingâthe water always finds its way back to you.
âBlue.â Simonâs voice snaps you from your daze. âHeyâlook at me.â
Tilting your head, just barely, your eyes settle at his sternum and the blond flicks of hair that swirl over the hem of his shirt. His scent hits you at this moment, the smoke and vetiver âand itâs all over you. And youâre all over him, hands on his belly and hips against his. Heâs bleeding into you through your jeansâhis warmth, his smell. The feeling blooming behind your ribs should be warm and fuzzyâdreamlikeâand in a way, it is warm. But only for a second before the fire begins, and only a few more until he seeps in far enough in to feel the burn himself.
His fuscouseyes flick to the farrago behind you, past the curling paint and chipping wood of your front porch. âJesus ChristâŚâ he mutters through chapped lips, flaky and pink. A heavy boot is about to past the threshold until you stop him, fingers burning holes in his jacket like you forgot how to let go.
âDonât,â you whisper. âDonât go in there.â
His eyes are slivers now, glaring. âWhat dâya mean, donât go in therâ? Someone broke into your fuckinâ house.â
You shake your head. Trembling fingers still holding him in place, but only because he lets you. âYou canât be here.â
Heâs looking at you with wild eyes now, darting all over your face as a predator would do before itâs about to catch its prey. âWhatâre you talkinâ about?â
âYou need to leave.â The words feel like screws coming up, scraping your throat so raw you can almost taste the copper. âPlease, Simon. Justâgo home.â
Youâre whining, childlike and annoying. Some part of you expects Simon to hit you for acting like thisâlike a baby. Your father surely would. You can feel the static prickling on your cheek for what should come, but it never does. Simon just stares at you like youâve lost your mind. âYa think Iâm walkinâ out on you like this?â He should be angry, wild and thrashing. Itâs confusing, really, why heâs not wild and thrashing, because thatâs all you know. âNot a chance.â
You tug weakly at his sleeve. âIâI canât explain r-right now, but if you stayââ Your voice breaks; the foundation is cracking. âItâll just make it worse.â
His eyebrows are pinched, jaw tight. âWorse for who?â
You canât say it. You can barely breathe, gulping up air like a fish out of water.
âYour doorâs busted open, your whole place looks like a goddamn crime sceneâwhy would I leave you âere?â
Because heâll come back. Because if he sees you, heâll think I told. Because heâll kill us both.
You swallow the thought until it hurts. âPlease,â you whisper. âJust trust me and go.â
Simon exhales roughly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. âYouâre not makinâ any fuckinâ sense.â
You twist awkwardly beneath his grip to face the monstrosity, almost like he wonât let you see the damage thatâs been done. The roomâs wrecked: drawers gutted, contents spilled like open mouths. Receipts, a broken plate, the cheap watch from your motherâs jewelry box split clean down the middle.
âBlue.â His voice dips, gravelly and thick as molassesâlike it was honeyed on his tongue. He keeps saying your name like he canât get it out of his mouth, stuck to the roof of his mouth and crammed in his molars. You peer up, only to be pinned on the spot. His eyes tying you down, weighed down by his golden lashes. He doesnât reach for you this timeâhe doesnât have to.
âIâm sorry,â you rasped, turning away from him only because if he keeps looking at you like that, youâre going to fall apart. The uncomfortable feeling rolls around in your stomach, and you almost want to hurl at its unfamiliarity. Foreign in the way he makes you want to spill everything, tear your insides out and hand them to him. But he wonât. So, you swallow it down like a handful of pills without water.
âDonât be.â His eyes sweep the room, then settle back on you, and you sort of hope this would never end. Not with the way hes looking at you, or how his calloused hand lies between your shoulder blades. Maybe if he keeps it there long enough he could brand you with his warmth. Claiming. Protecting. âYouâre not stayinâ here tonight.â
âI have to clean,â you mumble, a coverup so transparent even you can see through its haze . âI-I canât justâleave it like this.â
He shakes his head. âNah. Grab whaâ you need, youâre cominâ with me.â
âNoââ
âYes.â His tone leaves no room for air. Demanding. âOlive and Priceâd skin me alive if I left ya here.â
âThey donât have to know.â
He scoffs; something caught between a laugh and a prayer. âI already know, and thatâs enough.â
You shake your head, tears streaking your face. âYou donât understand, Simon.â
His honeyed, tired eyes drag over your faceâover your red-ringed eyes and clumping lashes, pinched brows and rose cheeks. âThen jusâ tell me whatâs goinâ on, Blue.â
But you canât. You canât tell him your father was here, or that his smell still hangs in the air so thick you can almost taste it. Or that if he sees either one of you, thereâll be bloodâhis or yours. The truth sits heavy in your throat, balled up and tense. When you push it down, you almost choke, and pray that this is purely a hyper-realistic dream. Squeezing your eyes shut until flashes of static burst behind them, only to find Simon staring right back at you.
Something in his face relaxes, like the fight drains out of him all at once. He exhales through his nose, slow and tired. The kind of sound men make when theyâre giving in to something they shouldnât. âFine. Donât tell me. But youâre not sleepinâ here tonight.â
For some reason you bite, cornered like a scared dog. Tail between your legs and teeth bared. Nervous. Mean. âWhy do you even care?â
He huffs a laugh under his breathâbitter, almost disbelieving. âDonâ start with thaâ bullshit. I just fuckinâ do, alrighâ? Ya not staying âere, so get what you need.â
âI donât need anything. Donâ need this, donâ need you.â You bite at him without meaning toâsharp, defensive, all teeth. For the smallest second, something in his face tightens: his brow, the corner of his mouth, the smallest pinch like a bruise forming. Itâs gone almost as soon as it appears, but itâs enough to make your stomach drop, enough to make your throat burn with guilt. That flickerâbarely thereâhits you harder than if heâd shouted. Heâs been carefully picking his steps around you like youâre made of cracked porcelain, trying not to press where it hurts, and youâre still splintering under the weight of it. You can feel yourself fracturing, pieces shifting where heâs trying so carefully not to break you.
âGreat,â he sighs, âLesâ go then.â
When he takes your arm, you donât fight him. You let him guide you out the door, where the air outside nips at your cheeks, sharp as glass. And down the creaking stairs, where the snow crunches underfoot like something breaking. He doesnât speak as he walks you to the truck. Just keeps a hand near youânot touching, but close enough that you feel the weight of it.
He opens the door, and it groans as he stands there with his hand in his jeans pocket and the other on the handle. Waiting. You shuffle in on your hands and knees, numb and trembling, snow flaking off your shoes and into the cab where they dissolve on the floor. The cab smells faintly of smoke and rain-soaked leather. When he starts the engine, the noise fills the space between you, a low hum that sounds too alive for how worn out you feel.
âThank you,â you mumble, breath fogging up in the icy air.
He doesnât answer right away, just taps his bruised knuckles against the steering wheel in restless rhythm. âYou donât gotta thank me,â he says finally before sliding the gear into drive.
The drive stretches out in silence, long and merciless. Flurries streaks across the windshield like static. You stare out at the snow, watching your reflection flicker in the glassâeyes hollowed out, mouth trembling. You donât even realize youâre crying again until your turtleneck collar is damp. The tears come fast, unthinking, unstoppable. At first, you were a dripping faucet, but now youâre a burst pipe.
When the truck slows to a stop in a small alley way further in town, Simon kills the engine. The growl fades, leaving only the faint hum of the snowstorm outside. The world feels muted, too small to breathe in. Fifteen minutes of silence collapse into stillnessâthe kind that presses on your throat, feeling for a pulse and asking if youâre still alive underneath it all.
He exhales, the sound so rough around the edges. His jacket rustles as he turns toward you. His eyes find your trembling hands, the wet shine across your cheeks. Youâre nothing but frayed edgesâskin stitched together with borrowed thread. .
âBlue, Iââ
But his voiceâhoarse, almost breakingâis the undoing. The stitching gives out.
âIâm sorry,â you gasp, each word clawing its way out. âIâm s-sorry, I didnât m-mean for you t-to have to deal withâthisâwith me.â The apology folds in on itself, useless. You press your palms into your eyes until color bursts behind them, until pain is all thatâs left. Youâre shaking, gasping at air like itâs water and youâre already drowning.
âYa not botherinâ me, kid,â he says. The words are low, gruff, steady. Like heâs holding them together for both your sakes.
You glance at himâhesitant and raw. His face is worn. Rough and scarred in places youâve never seen softness. But his eyesâhis eyes arenât. They are warm and welcoming, donât pry too deep. They trace your face like heâs memorizing it, counting every sloppy stitch holding you together, every tremor. When your tic hitsâeyes squeezing shut, jaw flickingâhe doesnât flinch, not even at the gross sound pulled from your throat. Doesnât look away. Just watches, patient. Something strange and heavy blooms behind your ribs, hot and uncomfortable. Something that hurts more than it should.
Neither of you speak when he steps out and circles the truck. The cold rushes in as he opens your door, hinges moaning like theyâve already seen too much winter. His hand finds your elbowânot pushing, not pulling. Just there. Just enough to guide you out and keep you balanced as you sink into the snow.
You move through the alley in silence, mimicking his movements like a shadow, feet falling into the prints of his shoes as you trail behind him. The snow falls in soft sheets, catching the orange glow of the streetlights, making everything look falsely peaceful. Your shoes crunch through slush; his are heavier, slower. The air bites and burns. Up the concrete stairs, the railing slick beneath your palm, the day so still it feels staged.
He slides the key into the lock until it clicks, then steps aside to let you in.
Simonâs apartment feels like a memory youâre not supposed to touch. The brown leather couch slumps against the wall, tired and cracked. A muddy doormat bears the weight of two pairs of work boots, both caked with dried earth. They look like your fatherâsâthe same kind of worn leather, the same ghosts of labor. Except your fathers mud never stopped at the mat. He dragged the dirt all the way through.
Thereâs a coat rack by the door with two jacketsâboth rugged, both used. One nicer leather one hangs untouched, except for the creased pack of Marlboros peeking from the pocket.
He kicks off his boots by the door. You do the same without thinking. He glances at you, brow raised. âWhat?â you ask, voice small and stupid.
âDonâ needa be takinâ off ya shoes if ya donâ wanâ to,â he mutters. âYa clean. Iâm not.â
Still, you leave them there. You pad quietly behind him in your socks, the ivory ones that look too soft for this place. The air inside feels differentâlukewarm, stale, with the faint bite of cigarettes and vetiver. The smell is ghostly familiar. It lingers in your lungs the way icy air doesâsharp, burning, and impossible to forget.
âSorry âbout the mess,â he sighs, rubbing a hand down his scarred face. âDonât really got time to clean.â He steps back, letting you wander a little, though not too far. Beer cans sit on his living room cocktail table, surrounded by bills and pens. Knuckle wrap lays unraveled along the warped wood.
âYa need somethinâ to drink?â he asks after a beat, nodding toward the fridge. âWaterâs from the tap, but itâll do ya.â
You nod, words stuck somewhere behind your teeth, sticky on your tongue. He doesnât wait for more, just heads into the kitchen. You follow, slow, socks slipping against the cold floorboards. The kitchen smells faintly of smoke, sweat, and something metallicâiron maybe, or rust. It is a quiet disaster. Cabinets hang slightly crooked, counterâs chipped and streaked. Dishes piled high, half-dried, half-forgotten. A can of something you donât recognize teeters on the edge of the sink. And yetâitâs domestic. Not perfect, but lived in. Safe, in a way that almost makes your chest ache with want.
âGlasses are in the cupboard,â he says over his shoulder. You reach up, trembling slightly, knocking a mug that wobbles before settling back into place. He grunts, not angry, just aware. âCareful.â
You fill it at the tap, the cold water running and dripping into your hands. You take a sip, letting it slide down your throat, letting it remind you youâre alive. Simon leans against the counter, watching you with heavy eyes, silent. Thereâs something unspoken in the way he studies youâlike heâs waiting, calculating how much to push, how much to hold back.
After a long pause, he finally mutters, âCan shower if ya want it. Donât gotta. Just thoughtâmight help.â
You swallow, nodding faintly. Everything in his apartment is tainted by his smellâsmoke and leather, faintly sharp and aliveâand for a moment, you think maybe itâs safer here than anywhere else.
He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. âTowels on the hook. SoapâsâŚwhateverâs left. Donât think I got fancy stuff.â
You move toward the small, grimy bathroom, water already hissing in the pipes somewhere behind the wall, like itâs been waiting for you. The tiles are cracked, the grout darkened with time and neglect, but the heat of the apartment bleeds through. The shower gurgles, warning you, beckoning you, and your hand hesitates on the knob.
The shower hisses to life, sputtering and spitting. The white tile walls close in around you, and for a moment, it almost feels like a padded roomâif not for the veins of dirt streaking the grout and the brownish almost-blood-looking rust licking up from the drain. The water only knows two temperatures: burning hot or icy cold. You choose the burnâyou always do. It hurts, naturally, but the sting feels clean, almost holy in its cruelty; washing you of your sins. You scrub yourself raw in silence, his bar of unscented soap melting against the washcloth, his half-used bottle of two-in-one barely foaming. Your mind drifts toward the razor on the shelf, the metal glinting like it knows your name and the exact way you would hold the blade. Taunting you. You reach toward it for just a secondâjust to feel the pull of temptationâthen let your hand fall away, watching the steam swallow it whole.
When itâs over, the bathroom is a haze of heat and ghosts. You step onto the cold, chipped tile, water dripping from your knees, pooling around your feet. His towel hangs on the hookârough, stiff, faded burgundy stains freckling its edges. The color turns your stomach, but you pull it around you anyway. It smells like soap and something older, something metallic and saccharine.
You pop open his mirror, expecting toothpaste and Advil. But insteadâitâs a gallery of wounds. Rolls of gauze stacked in neat towers. Bottles of rubbing alcohol. Tubes of antibiotic cream and ointments you cannot pronounce. A small at-home stitching kit, still threaded with a loop of dark string, like it has just been used. This isnât a construction workerâs medicine cabinet. Noâitâs something messier. Something bloodier.
You should be unsettled, tummy tight and twisted, and maybe you are. But the burn on your chest is throbbing like itâs begging for mercy, and curiosity blends to practicality. You seize the opportunity, cleaning the angry wound with trembling hands, layering gauze over it until itâs wrapped tight and white beneath your collarbone. By the time youâre done, your chest is swollen beneath the sweatshirtâan armor of gauze, stiff and fluffy, but yours all the same.
You dress in the clothes he left out on the toilet seatâa hoodie that swallows you whole and sweatpants that drag like tired ghosts along the floor. You could disappear inside them if you wanted. Maybe you already have.
When the mirror clears, it catches you off guard. Your reflection looks unfamiliarâeyes sunken, mouth slack, a puppet wearing your skin and forgetting the pull the strings. And then you see it. The bruise.
A purple-green handprint circling your throat, blooming rot beneath the skin. You lift your fingers, trace the marks with the lightest touch, afraid they might bite back. You donât feel anythingâno anger, no sorrow, not even shame. Just a slow dread rising in your stomach at the thought of Simon seeing it. At the thought of his questions. At the thought of how much you donât want to answer them.
The moment the door clicks shut, his head snaps up. Heâs on the phone, voice low has he hunched over the counter, but the second he sees youâdamp hoodie, pink-rimmed eyes, the faint wince you try to swallowâhis whole expression changes into something unfamiliarâat least from him. Something cold. Something lethal.
âYeahâgotta go,â he mutters, ending the call without waiting for a reply.
He turns fully, eyes dragging over you. Then he sees your neck, The air leaves his lungs in a violent, gutted sound. He steps closer but not too closeâlike heâs fighting himself. âWhaâ the fuck happened to your neck?â You freeze. You donât even breathe. The bruise throbs beneath your jugular and carotid, beneath his burning stareâyour pulse inside it like a warning bell.
âAllergic reaction,â you croak. The words scrape out, thin and pathetic. âFrom my sweater. From the wool.â
He stares at you. Long. Slow. Deadly quiet. His jaw flexes once, twice, thriceâlike heâs grinding down your words until they are believable enough to swallow.
âThat ainât no allergy,â he says, voice dropping to something rougher. âLooks like fingers.â His nostrils flare. âLooks like some assholeâs fingers.â Your stomach sinks, and you think for a moment you may just be sick. Your short stack sloshing out of your stomach and onto his grimy tile. You swallow down the acid before it can burn its way out.
He takes a breath, shoulders rising with tension he canât hide. âBlue.â He says your name like it hurts to say. And then something shifts. A thought. An ugly one. âThis happen at work?â he asks, head tilting and voice low. Too low. You flinch before you can stop yourself, and his jaw tightens. Thatâs all it takes. Just that tiny flicker. âYa boss, mhm? Ronny.â Itâs not even a question, not even an accusation. A deduction. Something dark solidifying behind his eyes. âOlive said he was rough witâ you. Didnât know she meant like thaâ.ââ
Everything in your body goes numb. You donât answer. Thatâs answer enough. He looks away, jaw working so hard you hear the grind of his teeth. His fists clenchâthen unclenchâthen clench again. He is seconds from violence, and youâre reminded of the little sanctuary behind his mirror. With gauze and santispetic, rinses him clean of his anger. His sins.
When he finally looks at you again, heâs steering you by your shoulders into the living room, into better light to dissect you. He tilts your chin carefully with his thumb and forefinger, breathing deep and angry. His voice cracks down the middle when he speaks. âMy father used to do the same to my mum.â A swallow, scratching the stubble on his neck with angry fingers. âI know a handprint when I see it. Donâ know why you keep lyinâ to me.â The words hit you like punches hit straight to your chest. Heavy and accusing. Guilt rushes up your throat until you taste metal. You think about Ronnyâs hands. Think about Simon finding out. Think about what Simon would become if he knew.
You imagine blood. Blame. You imagine you holding the match to a fuse heâd burn himself on, adding fuel to his fire. Your knees threaten to give. âItâs nothing,â you whisper, because itâs the only thing you can offer that wonât start somethingâstart whatever he has going on behind that mirror.
He stares at youâreally staresâuntil something in him softens enough not to break you. âTell me when youâre ready,â he murmurs. ââCause that asshole layinâ a hand on you again.â He turns awayâjust slightly, just enough to breathe.
âI got work in a bit,â he adds, voice returning to that low, steady rumble. âWonât be back till late.â
âD-do you want me to go home?â you ask, voice paper-thin.
He snorts, eyes falling shut as he sinks into the couch. âDunno where else youâd run off to in weather like this. Couch is yours. And if ya want the bed, take it. Donâ matter, sweethart.â
You stand there in his hoodie, dripping water into his carpet, feeling small and misplaced and dumb.
He doesnât open his eyes. But he hears every sound you make. He feels every tremor in the silence.
Youâre not so sure. Not of him. Of yourselfâof what youâd do if he ever touched you gently again. Because every time he says your name like that, low and tired and almost gentle, something inside you aches in a way that feels dangerousâtempting. You stir on Simonâs couch for the next few hours before he leaves, folding into the leather like your pretending to be a pillow. A pillow he wonât notice. But he does. He asks you simple things. If youâre hungry, if you want anything before he leaves, if you want his phone number. âJust in case,â he grumbled, sticking a Post-It with his number scribbled on it in front of you.
When the front door clicks shut behind him, the silence settles thick and heavy, dust in an empty church. You turn the small neon-yellow Post-it over in your hand, thumb tracing the uneven strokes of his handwritingâthe slanted digits of his number, the hurried better safe than sorry scrawled beneath it. You can still picture him hunched over the kitchen counter as he wrote it, Carhartt stretched tight across his shoulders, the posture of a man carved from storms and old scars.
He looked like someone you should never trust. Someone who belongs in shadows, in warnings whispered at the edge of town. A man you shouldnât spend a night alone withâlet alone curl up in his bed.
But the moment you burrow into his scarlet cotton sheets, something in your chest softens. Itâs strange, the way safety sneaks up on youâquiet as a ghost, settling into your bones before you realize itâs there. His nightstand tells the story he never will: cigarette butts crowding a thick glass ashtray, a wrinkled newspaper folded like itâs been read a hundred times, and two empty tubes of Neosporin squeezed within an inch of their lives. All the little remnants of someone who patchworks himself together and keeps moving.
And you sit there, clutching the Post-it like itâs a relic, feeling safer in the bed of a man you canât quite understand than you ever did in the house you came from. Beneath his popcorn ceiling, watching the fan that never turns, you wonder if this is what a real home is supposed to feel likeâquiet, solid, a place where the walls donât whisper secrets when youâre gone. For a foolish second, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that Simon is yours, that you belong here, that this room is something youâre allowed to want.
But the fantasy collapses as quickly as it forms, crumbling under the weight of its own impossibility. Heat rushes to your face and you roll onto your stomach, burying yourself in the scent of him before you can think better of it. It clings to everythingâwoven into the sheets, threaded into the seams of his pillow, soaked deep into the mattress. You breathe him in anyway, greedy and ashamed, because thisâthis borrowed bed, this lingering smellâis the closest youâll ever be to something gentle. To him. And you tell yourself heâd never want someone as wrecked as you, so you close your eyes and force sleep to take you, curled in the ghost of a man who will never be yours.
I lowkey hate this but whatever I need to post it before it takes me another year
construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress
Even when you were nestled in your mother's warm belly, coddled by her own blood and flesh, you could tell you were a burden. A miracle, the doctors said when you were born. Your mother's heart stopped beating for 4 minutes while in laborâvital to a fetus and its host. The miracle was the baby bathed in blood and mucus, not the lifeless mother, puckered and pearl.
You didnât cry when you were born, too occupied trying to get your walnut-sized heart to betray you, set you free of the hell youâd just begun.
You were never a child who cried for attention. Instead, you swallowed your sounds, held your breath, and watched the world through the lens of someone who wasnât meant to stay. The hole in the shape of a woman you never met was always there, a mark left in the silenceâa picture on the wood-paneled wall. Belly swollen, smile wide. No stories to tell, no lullabies, no warmth from the one person who was supposed to make you feel like you belonged.
But what happens when you cross paths with someone just as damaged? Someone who bends the gravity of grief itself, shifting its weight, until-for the first time-you can finally breathe.
Sneak peak of chapter 8 of a burning hill since I didnât get it out this weekend and I need to feed you guys
tws for abuse, violence, home invasion
âWhat the fuck happened?â
Simonâs voice cracks the silence like a whip. You donât answer. Youâre pulled against his chest before you even realize itâface smushed in the scratchy fabric of his Carhartt, tears staining through the canvas. It smells like himâmuddy, smoky. A wave of his aftershave prickles your nose. Heâs saying something again, but itâs muffled by the water in your ears. Soon youâre hiccupping for air as the water fills your lungs, and youâre reminded this isnât your first time drowning.
When you were a wee little thing, the creek behind your shack was the only thing that didnât hurt to touch. It wound through the dirt like a vein, weak and murky, carrying with it the smell of rain and rot. Youâd sit on its edge, dipping your toes in, pretending the water could wash you cleanâwash away the things your fatherâs voice left behind. The air was always thick with gunpowder and tobacco inside, but down there, under the trees and beneath the moss, it almost felt like peace.
One summer day, the water bit back. A snapping turtle clamped down on the arch of your foot as you waded between rocks. Sharp as a trap, teeth masticating into the soft place between skin and bone. You remember the shriek that tore out of youâshrill, grotesqueâand how the sound agitated even the birds from the trees. Before you could stop yourself, you were gulping down piquant creek water in hopes of finding air. Your father didnât run to you. He came slow, cursing, his Remmington 700 still in hand. By the time he jerked you out, you were garbling up salty creek water, the grass imbruing into a vicious vermillion around your foot. He ripped the turtle off, tossed it into the mud, slapped his hand on your back, and trekked back to the woods with a vexed huff.
After that, you never touched the creekâs soupy water again, just slumped on rocks nearby. But sometimesâwhen your chest pinches taut, when your pulse batters so loud you canât hearâyou feel it pooling inside of your lungs no matter how far youâve gotten from that creek. The brine, the burn, the weight of something trying to drag you under. And you remember that no matter how far you run from that placeâthat home, that feelingâthe water always finds its way back to you.
âBlue.â Simonâs voice snaps you from your daze. âHeyâlook at me.â
Tilting your head, just barely, your eyes settle at his sternum and the blond flicks of hair that swirl over the hem of his shirt. His scent hits you at this moment, the smoke and vetiver âand itâs all over you. And youâre all over him, hands on his belly and hips against his. Heâs bleeding into you through your jeansâhis warmth, his smell. The feeling blooming behind your ribs should be warm and fuzzyâdreamlikeâand in a way, it is warm. But only for a second before the fire begins, and only a few more until he seeps in far enough in to feel the burn himself.
His fuscous eyes flick to the farrago behind you, past the curling paint and chipping wood of your front porch. âJesus ChristâŚâ he mutters through chapped lips, flaky and pink. A heavy boot is about to past the threshold until you stop him, fingers burning holes in his jacket like you forgot how to let go.
âDonât,â you whisper. âDonât go in there.â
His eyes are slivers now, glaring. âWhat dâya mean, donât go in therâ? Someone broke into your fuckinâ house.â
You shake your head. Trembling fingers still holding him in place, but only because he lets you. âYou canât be here.â
Heâs looking at you with wild eyes now, darting all over your face as a predator would do before itâs about to catch its prey. âWhatâre you talkinâ about?â
âYou need to leave.â The words feel like screws coming up, scraping your throat so raw you can almost taste the copper. âPlease, Simon. Justâgo home.â
Youâre whining, childlike and annoying. Some part of you expects Simon to hit you for acting like thisâlike a baby. Your father surely would. You can feel the static prickling on your cheek for what should come, but it never does. Simon just stares at you like youâve lost your mind. âYa think Iâm walkinâ out on you like this?â He should be angry, wild and thrashing. Itâs confusing, really, why heâs not wild and thrashing, because thatâs all you know. âNot a chance.â
You tug weakly at his sleeve. âIâI canât explain r-right now, but if you stayââ Your voice breaks; the foundation is cracking. âItâll just make it worse.â
His eyebrows are pinched, jaw tight. âWorse for who?â
You canât say it. You can barely breathe, gulping up air like a fish out of water.
âYour doorâs busted open, your whole place looks like a goddamn crime sceneâwhy would I leave you âere?â
Because heâll come back. Because if he sees you, heâll think I told. Because heâll kill us both.